2 years

My mother, Sharon, died two years ago, today.


In some ways, it's hard to believe it's only been two years.  It feels like a lifetime I've lived without my mother here.  So much has happened, in every single day, that I want to tell her about.  So many little things - things that we would laugh at, or cry over, or discuss, or sing about.  There are big things, too - I'm making some job changes, I've moved apartments,  I fell in love and got engaged.  I'm going to have a wedding (something I know she always wanted to throw for me) and there is something so difficult and bittersweet about realizing her dreams for me, in her absence. 




In other ways, it feels like two years have been gone in the blink of an eye.  If I close my eyes, I can picture myself back in her hospital room, surrounded by my brother, father, aunt, uncle and grandmother, as we held her and whispered "we love you" as she took in her last breath and left this world.  Just like it was yesterday.  I can still see the details of her hands, the crookedness of her smile (which she hated), and the faces she used to make.  I can still hear her laugh, uproarious and contagious, and if I listen very closely I can still hear her heartbeat when she used to hug me and hold me - something a daughter never forgets. 


In distant ways, I can still see all the memories I have of her, in the back of my mind - from the time I was very little up until now. It often feels like an old movie reel, playing highlights over and over in my head.   When someone dies, I think we fear most that we will forget them and all the little moments that contributed to the whole of who they were - to ourselves and to the world.  But, now, I know that isn't true.  In fact, it's all of those little things that surface all the time for me, that remind me of something she used to do or say, of who she used to be and the people she touched.  The further away we get from her life, the more important these little reminders and memories become, to me, in keeping her spirit alive. 


When she first died, people were so gracious and comforting and loving and I've never stopped being grateful for that.  I was so scared that I would be trapped in the grief and pain of losing my best friend and my mother, but I'm not.  With the help of amazing family and friends, I've come through the cloud of grief and settled into bearing a new reality.  It doesn't get easier with time, but it certainly becomes more bearable and we learn better how to live with the emptiness that sits within us.  But that emptiness always resides deep inside.  Even two years later. Perhaps it will reside there forever. 


I spoke with my father, this morning, and he told me that he often feels like we're still living in a dream, that sometimes it's hard to accept this new kind of reality that is so unwelcomed and unfamiliar to the history of our lives.  After all, each of us have had so much more time with her in our lives, than without her.  We spoke about time and how much we 'think' time will help or hurt us, but that ultimately we control what times gives us and we control our memory of her and how she lives on in our lives. 


At her funeral, my friend sang a song I had never heard of before called "Stones Under Rushing Water" by NEEDTOBREATHE.  If you've never heard it, go find it,  it's a beautiful piece.  And, every year, on the anniversary of her death, or at times when I really miss her or am thinking about her, I listen to it.  For some reason, it helps to remind me of all the pain and all the grief and all the blessings and new life and excitement and all the memory and love that exist in the world and that I have for my mother.  It's been two years.  I miss her every day.  But, I am also grateful for the love and guidance she gave me, for the blessings of her life that still live on in the people she knew and loved and touched.  It's hard, but life goes on, beating forward, and her memory shines brightly within us, living on, as well.








Why don't we dance anymore?
I'm not okay with that
Why don't we laugh anymore?
I'm not okay with that


The years go by
Like stones under rushing water
We only know
We only know
when it's gone....


Yeah, the years go by
Like stones under rushing water
We only know
We only know
when it's gone....

Yom Kippur Sermon 5775 - Creative Midrash

Jonah: The Prequel

I was born a cursed man. I'm not famous. Not yet, at least. But soon, everyone is going to know my name: Jonah. Some people would eventually call me a prophet, but I never liked that term. It's always implied something special or good about me and I don't think I'm a particularly good person. No, I prefer the name Jonah. In Hebrew it means “dove” which I guess makes sense. I was always taking flight, ever since I could remember. Even as a baby, I was quick to walk, preferring not to crawl but to learn how to move as fast as I could, jetting from point A to point B, just to see how fast I could get there. Adults called me curious, but looking back I know it was a combination of mischief and movement that would shape my life. Curiosity is just a nice word for it. Later on, my speed and desire to flee served me well. I'd get into trouble and leave, just like that. I was always running, from my family, from my troubles, maybe even trying to run from myself. And for most of my early life, I was pretty good at flying away. Until it all eventually caught up with me. I couldn't run any longer – I had to face everything about who I was, what I knew, and what my job would eventually be. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't want to tell you about how I got famous and what I did and that giant awful fish. Not really. I want to tell you about who I am and where it all began.

Even if I wasn't a great person, there was something undeniably different about me. Perhaps it's why I was always trying to escape, to leave, to get away from it all. Because I could never really figure out how to get away...from that voice. I always heard it. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't hear that voice, speaking to me, like everyone else was speaking to me. But I remember the first time that I really became aware of it, and knew that I was different.

I was about 7 years old and my cousin and I were playing in the great big waters. Usually we just went down there to bathe but it was a particularly hot summer day. I never really liked being in the water, but I liked that it could move me faster than I could move on my own. So, I learned how to swim and let it move me along. I loved the feel of the reeds against my skin as I moved fast, darting in and out like the schools of fish we could see in the crystal clear depths. My cousin and I were playing a game to see how long we could stay underwater before we needed to get to the top and find some air. He was pretty good, but I knew that I could be better. So I took a deep breath, held my nose, and plunged underwater. As I sank lower and lower into the cool wetness, I knew I was going to win. I was just about ready to come up for air when I realized that I couldn't move my foot. It was trapped. It was as though something had a hold on it. It didn't hurt but I couldn't moved it and I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was running out of air. I panicked. I flailed my arms as fast as could be and heaved my body back and forth, trying to free myself from whatever was holding me down. And that's when I heard it. That voice. It wasn't unfamiliar to me. Like I said, I had always heard it, but I'd never really been aware of it. It was like background noise, most of the time. But suddenly my mind was razor sharp and focused on the only sound I could hear. “Relax....” it said. “Breathe....” I panicked all over again. Where was that voice coming from? There was no one down there with me, in the depths of those waters. But it came again, as clear as could be. “Relax...” I felt the voice wash over me and for the first time, I really listened to it. I stopped moving my arms and my legs and I let my whole little body relax. My foot must have been hooked on something because the second I let my body go limp, my foot released from its trap and I floated to the surface. It wasn't until I was above water, sputtering out liquid from my nose and mouth, that I realized what had happened. A voice, that was not me and not anyone else, had told me what to do. It had saved me. And I was terrified. What was this voice? Where did it come from? Why did I hear it all the time, now? What was happening to me? Why couldn't anyone else hear this voice, like I did? I didn't understand it. I knew I was cursed. So, I left.

I left my family early on, when I was still a boy, and not quite yet a man. . I left my family because they didn't understand me. They didn't feel my need to get away, all the time, to try new things and to have fun. I never liked being told what to do, from them or from anyone. They certainly didn't understand that voice I had once tried to explain to them. They just thought I was a freak. So, I left. Who needs them, anyway?

I didn't like the water, but I realized that the great big waters were a means to an end. There were a lot of people there traveling in and out, trying to sell things, trying to make a living. I found like-minded people who dwelled along the great big waters. They were always traveling back and forth, here and there, seeking what they wanted, meeting new people, doing as they pleased. I gravitated towards that lifestyle. That sense of freedom, of independence, of carefree days. I wanted that. I craved that. They weren't the best of people. In fact, they often lied, cheated, and stole to get what they needed. But, I didn't mind that. It kept me on my toes, always trying to stay one step ahead of everyone else. I didn't judge them or care what they did, as long as they didn't hurt me and stop me from making money. As long as I could run free and move when I wanted and where I wanted, I was happy.

Soon after I left my family, I met an old man, named Amittai, who took me in. Like me, he understood the need to be free and to keep moving. He always made sure I had shelter and food. He taught me how to do business, too. He trained me to know how to sell and trade and barter for what we needed, in exchange for what other people wanted. We had fun, too. He loved hearing my stories from home and didn't seem to mind when I told him about that voice. In fact, he quite liked it – it often helped me understand people that we did business with and figure out what to do when we were in trouble. It was a good partnership, between me and Amittai – he had knowledge and experience, and I was young and had energy and....intuition. But it was more than that, what we had. He really was like a father to me. He looked after me and understood me and treated me like I was worthy of his time. In many ways, he was the only family that I ever had, even if it was of our own making. For the first time, I WAS happy...that is, until I was cursed, again.

We had been in a new city for about 2 moons. Ami had gotten comfortable with the local traders and merchants and sailors. And they were getting to know us, too. Until one night, things took a wrong turn. I was fast asleep, my back sore from carrying heavy loads all day, when suddenly I was being shaken awake. “Get up, Jonah.” Ami said. He looked serious but calm. “We have to make a deal, tonight.” “Right now?” I said. His eyes told me the answer. So I dragged myself up, threw on my clothes, and followed my friend out to the great big waters. I trusted Ami, and I didn't want to tell him that the voice was urging me not to go. I felt the voice envelop me like the thick fog that was piercing the cool night air. But, like I often did when I thought I knew better, I ignored it, shrugged it off my shoulders like an old blanket and followed after my friend. “Stay here” Ami told me. “Like all the guys we deal with, these guys are a little tough. But they're offering me a good deal for our stuff. I don't think they're dangerous, but I just want you to be safe. Watch and learn how to deal with these kind of guys.” I nodded, listening to my old friend, my business partner, my mentor, and crouched into a small space in a stone wall, so I could see him, but stay of sight. I watched him walk away, down towards the waters. As he left, I longed to go after him, to stop him, to bring him back. But, I didn't. I just stayed very still and kept my eyes open.

Three men approached Ami, down by the waters. I couldn't see their faces, only the outline of their bodies. One was short and wide and the other two were taller. Ami immediately produced our goods for the buyers to see. It only took a few seconds for what happened next. One of the tall men grabbed Ami while the others struck him. I couldn’t move. I was afraid. All I could hear was that voice saying, “Stay here. Stay safe. Stay here.” I watched Ami fall into the waters, as I was paralyzed by fear for my best friend. It was the first time in my life I couldn't move, as desperately as I wanted to. The three men took our goods and left. I rushed over to Ami and dragged him out of the waters onto the shore, but I knew it was too late for him. I held my friend as he left this world and I sobbed over him. “Why?” I cried out. “Why did I listen to that voice and stay?” I could have helped him. I could have stopped them. I could have done something. But, instead, I had nothing. All of our goods were gone, and I was alone – having lost the only person in the world who ever felt like my family. I shut the voice off and every time I heard it, I ignored it. It was just too painful. It wasn't just that I was cursed, it was that everything I touched, everyone I knew, they were cursed, too.

So, I moved along. As the years rolled by, I learned how to fend for myself, how to trade goods on my own, and how to survive. Ami had taught me well and my business was enough for me to live off of, and have a little extra too. I never forgot Ami, what he taught me, or what happened, but I was starting to feel good again – running my own life the way that I liked. People were starting to know me for me and knew they could trust me to do business with them. I felt like, with my loss of Ami, that I had seen the worst the world could offer. I knew pain and suffering. I was finally on the road to happiness and freedom. Until one day, I got cursed all over again. It was the most common way any person can be cursed. Maybe you've heard of it: The total and complete agony of LOVE.

I'll never forget that day that I first met her. It's as crystal clear in my memory, as if it happened yesterday. I was trading with the sailors on the shore of the great big waters when I looked up and there she was. Long, curly black flowing hair, beautiful smooth skin, and a confidence about her I cannot explain. My heart was beating fast and my mouth was suddenly dry. “I'm Jonah, son of Amittai,” I said. I was surprised that my throat could actually pull words from it. “I'm Neera,” she replied warmly, smiling at me with her eyes. My heart fluttered and I felt light-headed. But her warm eyes and her sweet smile steadied me. “I work with my father, over there, to help our family business.” I barely glanced over at the man she was pointing to, captivated by every motion she was making and every breath she took. “Oh” I said. STUPID. What kind of a line is that? But she just smiled at me, waved, and turned to leave. “I hope I'll see you around, for a while,” she said as she turned and ran towards her father. I exhaled. Yes, you certainly will see me around.

Over the next several moons, I saw Neera every single day. I learned about her life and tried to understand who she really was. Her mother had died giving birth to her and her brothers were out on the seas, fishing for their family business. So, that left her on shore to work with her father and sell and trade their goods and fare. She was very close with her father and loved him very much. So, I did what any love-struck man does, and I helped them out, showing up every day to work with them. Lucky for me, her father seemed to take a liking to me, as well. He often invited me to join them for evening bread. Neera and her family were Hebrews, worshiping one God, whom they considered to be the Source of everything – good, bad, and even all the things we can't explain. I had never really given much thought to it all, before, but the more I learned about it from them, the more it made sense. God doesn't exist in things, in small little statues or pictures that we make, but rather in what is made around us, in what already exists, in moments and experiences. God was the one who made the waters and the land and everything in it. I liked it. It fit what I had always thought, but never really understood. “I am a Hebrew too,” I announced one day to Neera and her father. “I believe in one God, both wrathful and loving.” They looked up at me, pleased, and quietly returned to their work. I saw Neera look back up at me, and give a quick wink and a smile. I felt triumphant. I felt as though things finally felt right. Being with Neera was easy – she was warm and kind and taught me about her land and I told her stories of my world and who I was. Every day with her was new and interesting and I could feel myself growing, actually changing, because of someone else. It both excited me and terrified me, beyond belief.

After one full turn of the sun, I realized that I had to leave. My business was slowing down, I could no longer support myself and I knew it was time for me to keep moving, to find new sellers to trade with. My business, and my life, thrived when I was on the move. I had been running my whole life, but this time, I wanted someone to run with me. “Come with me, Neera,” I urged. “Your father can come too. I love you both and it's time for me to move on....but, I want you to move with me. Will you be my wife?” Neera looked at me as though I had asked her to transform into a giant big fish. “I can't,” she said. “My life is here. My home is here. My brothers will return to us from the seas and if we're not here, how would they find us? I love you, Jonah, but I can't go with you. Why can't you just stay here, with us? We love having you.” The tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away. “I thought you understood me. I thought you knew who I was, after all this time. I can never stay. There is too much to see and do and run towards.” And then, I heard that voice, the one I shut away for so many years, and it spoke through me. “It's my destiny to go. It's my future to leave here. I just don't want to leave you....” “I can't,” she repeated. And her shoulders began to heave as her sobs unleashed like a mighty torrent. My heart ripped in two. I kissed her cheek softly. “I'll always love you,” I said, realizing the weight of my words. The finality in them. “Me too,” she answered softly. “Me too.”

So, I left. The first person I ever loved was taken from me. The second person I ever loved, well....I guess that was my doing. That's the thing about being cursed. You can feel joy and love and alive, but there's still pain and confusion and doubt. After Ami's death, I had resigned myself to loneliness and emptiness, and Neera changed that for me. She taught me it was possible to love and feel happiness, again. She helped me to understand that there were forces in this world beyond my control. No matter how far I run, I can never escape that love, or all of my heart-break, or everything I learned. The difference is, that I know who I am, now. I know why I run and I know what I believe in and what I've seen and what my life can hold. I don't always like it, and I will always prefer to run away from it, rather than towards it. I guess that's part of knowing who I am. I am not a particularly good person – in fact, I'm quite flawed. I am just a human, a human who senses and hears and feels and who needs to keep moving. Maybe that voice is some kind of special gift, but it doesn't change who I am, deep down inside. Not really.

I know I am a cursed man. And my story is not yet done. I know that whatever comes next, it will continue to be built upon the sum of all of my experiences. Every decision I make might not be the best one, but it's mine to make and it's mine to stand by. After all, whether you're cursed or not, whether you hear that voice too or not, we are all humans, living and learning and I guess that’s what we're all trying to do – just live our lives and move forward, as best we can.

So that’s me, Jonah. There’s a lot more, but it will all unfold, over time. Like the rest of us, all we can do is live and learn and keep on moving.

SuperMichael and SuperPhyllis

Michael and Liz, visiting during her Year-in-Israel, 2005

It was the summer of 1999 at Goldman Union Camp Institute.  I was still in high school and I was spending my summer working and studying in the Avodah program at camp.  I met Phyllis Sklar, a rabbinical student who was working at GUCI for the summer, and she was very friendly to me. 
I met her fiancé, Michael Sommer , when he came to visit her, but it wasn't until the following summer, when he was working at GUCI too, that we all really became friends. 

You have to understand - I was a tall, overweight, unconfident, not-so-funny-yet teen.  People who seemed to genuinely like me felt very rare, to me. Who were these two and where did they come from??

In the summer of 2001, Michael (still a rabbinical student) returned to GUCI and I spent my 2nd year on staff (a sophomore in college) and that's when our friendship really solidified.  Even though he was much older than me, we really connected.  He could see in me all the things I couldn't really yet see in myself. He seemed to take such pride in the good work I was doing as a counselor and staff member.   He used to tell me, "We don't always get to choose our family.  But we always get to choose our friends who become our family." I learned so much from him, that summer, about life and love and hard work and fun and friendship.

As a college student at IU, I probably visited Michael and Phyllis at their home in Cincinnati once a month for the following few years. We all grew so remarkably close over those years, as we experienced so much together in each other's lives.   I even spent part of a summer in their upstairs attic room when I was studying Hebrew at HUC-JIR to get into rabbinical school.  When they left Cincinnati to head up to Chicago, I saw them slightly less frequently, but never with less intensity to our visits.  Our bonds over the years only strengthened as our family and our own friends became intertwined in one another's lives.

I was there when each of their kids were born.  I was there through their ordinations and they were there through my graduation, ordination, and even as my mother lay dying, last year. I'll never forget how grateful I was to Phyllis for driving me and my grandmother to my mother's dying bedside, or when she and Michael sang softly in her hospital room, rubbing my shoulders as I wept.

I weep now, for my dear friends and their tragic loss of Sammy. 

Michael and Phyllis are amazing.  Not just for what they've been through, but for who they are.
They were my friends when I felt as though I'd never understand what real friendship was. 
They were my first "family" members outside of my own who would take me in and go on to be lifelong friends. 
They were my mentors and now my colleagues - I always look to Phyllis when I have any "rabbinical" inspiration that I need. Every rabbi needs their own rabbi, too.
They create a life for themselves much like a kibbutz - everyone is a valued member (and everyone pitches in around their house), everyone gets to be with them and is included, everyone is a part of their family.
They taught me about warmth and friendship and creating relationships with people that are meaningful and significant and that weave throughout the fabric of our lives.

There are so many stories, memories, and inside jokes that we've shared, that it would take a lifetime to retell them all again.

Over the last few days, people have remarked to me about how lucky they are to have me in their life and to be their friend, but everyone has it all backwards.  I am the lucky one. 

I am lucky that I found friends who have, literally, changed the shape and scope and narrative of my life. In every stage and at nearly every age, they've been there.  I am lucky that I have lifelong friends who have helped support me and love me in my terrible teens, tumultuous twenties, and slightly-more-stable thirties.  But, I am not surprised.  Because that is just who they are. They are SuperMichael and SuperPhyllis.

As Sam's "Auntie Liz" I will never stop weeping for the pain and suffering he had to endure these last many months and for the unfinished symphony of his life.  As Michael and Phyllis's inner circle, I will always try to hold them up and support them and carry them, as best I can.  Because that is exactly what you do for your family.  And that is what Michael and Phyllis have always taught me - we go through this life but once, and it's about the people we meet and the relationships we sustain that count above everything, and anything, else. 

YOM KIPPUR - 5774

Over the last several months, I cannot seem to stop thinking about “thestrals”. Before this year, I did not understand this magical and mythical creature in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. Thestrals, as we understand them from the 5^th book in the series, are gaunt dark horses with wings, but can only be seen by someone who has encountered death. They were there from the very beginning of the series, driving the so-called “horseless carriages” from the train station to Hogwarts, but it is not until Harry witnesses the death of his friend, Cedric Diggory, that he can finally see them. It suddenly puts Harry in a different category, with eyes opened and aware of new things around him, because he has seen and known death.

Before this last year, I didn't really understand what these thestrals represented. As a rabbi, I sit with the dying, and then the bereaved, quite often. They didn't always seem so different to me. Why, after experiencing a death, would the world suddenly seem different, with new and different things in it, to that person? It wasn't until this last year, when I experienced my own tremendous loss that I finally understood: It's not that we see things differently, it is that the world becomes different to us. As one woman in my bereavement group often suggests, “When our loved one died, the trivial things of this world died away as well. We don’t see the world in color, anymore. We are confronted with the reality of black and white and how to navigate in that kind of world.”

In truth, I'm not sure it's that easy of an explanation. Now don't get me wrong - This has been the hardest year of my life. The pain of suddenly losing the closest person in the world to me, who happened to be my mother, role model, confidant and my best friend all rolled into one, was unbearable most days. At the age of 30, I never expected to lose my 61 year old mother, and I miss her more and more every day that she is not here with me. But in those first few days, and even now as I continue to feel this reverberation of grief in my life, I never stopped seeing the world in color. In fact, I've felt a heightened sense of love, support, and gratitude. The triviality of things in this world fell away for me, for sure. And the world is a completely different place for me than before, even though I may appear the same on the outside. But the choice I made to find hopefulness in all of this, and to continue to find beauty and color in our world was the only reality I could bear as I began the monumental task of learning to live my life without my mother.

My mother was the epitome of positivity and hopefulness. She always made the choice to see the glass half full. She believed there was a solution to every problem in life, even if it just meant looking at it from every possible angle. But sitting with her after one of the many blood transfusions she received in the ten weeks between her diagnosis of leukemia and her untimely death, I will never forget when she turned to me, in a weakened moment and said, “You know, Elizabeth, control is just an illusion. We always think we're in control of things, but it turns out that we're not. In the end, we have so little say over what ultimately happens in our lives.” And like all the wise things my mother used to say, she was absolutely right. Control is just an illusion. It comforts us when we are scared and reassures us when we have doubt. But it is not real. If it were, my mother would still be here today, and perhaps a loved one of yours would still be here too. It's a hard concept to swallow that we have no real control over what might happen to us, in our lives. But, luckily, my mother also spent my entire life telling me that the one thing we could control were the choices we make in this world. We cannot control what happens to us, but we can always control how we react and the outcome of our own actions. And, of course, she was also right. You see, it's a fine line between illusion and reality and the difference is control versus choice. Control is just an illusion, but choice is our reality. However, it is not until we are faced with the fragility of life, the possibility of death, and the pain of loss that we, perhaps, can ever fully understand this tension. Control is an illusion, but how we respond, that choice is our reality.

On Yom Kippur morning, we read from the book of Deuteronomy that advises us to choose life. It says, “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse - - therefore choose life¹.” Now, this does not literally mean that we can stop death by choosing life. If only. It means that we have a choice about how to live our lives, in the face of despair and curse and hopelessness. It reminds us that in every situation, no matter how dire or difficult, we always have a choice on how to respond, how to react, and how to proceed. And it is those choices, in particular, that will dictate how we live our lives, how we find blessings in the curse, and how we find life even in the face of death.

In some ways, I believe that the thestrals from Harry Potter represent the choices that we can now see. The veil of illusion was lifted from Harry's eyes. He can no longer ignore the realities of life so he must make choices on how to live with this greater understanding of the world. Illusion and the illusion of control are gone and that is what makes reality so evident, what awakens us to the truth and fragility of life around us.

This last Wednesday was the twelve year anniversary of the attacks on September 11^th. If ever there was a day in our recent history that was more stark and grim reality than control, it was that one, and the days that followed. But in our collective loss, there was not only pain and suffering and fear. There was also hope, and love and a desire to work through grief, together. Rick Hamlin, the executive editor of Guideposts magazine wrote a beautiful article last year about his memories on the days that followed September 11^th, 2001. He wrote: Not long after that day, when the sirens of police cars and ambulances still set us on edge, when the streetlamp poles and sides of telephone booths were still plastered with black-and-white posters of the missing saying, “Have you seen?” of “If you have any information on...” I was crossing 33^rd street. The woman walking in front of me was clearly grieving, paying no attention to where her feet were taking her, meandering in a fog. Without knowing it, she ran directly into a cop on the corner.

I took a deep breath. A New York cop is not someone to mess with, certainly not to run into. He held out his arms, though, holding her gently by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes as if to say, 'You going to be all right? Did you lose a loved one too? We'll get through this, OK?' Then, he did something remarkable. He gave her a gentle hug, patting her on the back, before they separated and she moved on. If ever a hug was a prayer, there it was. Barriers had dropped, compassion took over protocol, love spoke.

It's what I remember most about those sad days, the lesson I still take with me on the streets of New York. Watch out, look up, someone's sure to be aching or grieving. Be ready to care. Be ready to reach out. A hug can be a prayer.²

What I love most about this story is the choice that the police officer made. He too was confronted with the reality of loss and grief when he got run over by that woman who knocked into him. But, instead of telling her to watch where she was going, he made a choice. He recognized her pain, he realized he had no control over the whole situation, and he chose life – affirming her by embracing her and comforting her in her most painful hour.

Loss is a universal experience. Whether it is personal, communal, or national loss, there isn't one of us here who won't feel it significantly in our lifetime. We each have meaningful and deep relationships that enrich our lives. And it is because of the beauty and strength of those relationships that we end up feeling our pain and our grief so deeply, when these people cease to exist. It's the classic example of King Solomon and the baby. A real mother, one who loves and cherishes and cultivates a relationship with her child, would never let Solomon split the baby, for fear that it would harm the child. It's much easier to lose something we never loved, in the first place, than to give up something that we treasure most of all.

But we all must lose. That's the reality of being human and knowing that we are not infinite beings. I think about how blind I was at this time, last year. On Yom Kippur 5773, my mother was fine, without a diagnosis of cancer and with no knowledge of what the coming weeks and months would quickly bring. Life can change in the blink of an eye and more can happen in a year than you ever imagined or expected. Although we are never prepared for tremendous loss ahead of time, we can consciously think about the choice we have in what to do in the aftermath, in how to relate to others, in how to perceive the world, and in the way in which we care for ourselves and our loved ones.

You, our Reform Temple of Forest Hills, have helped me to find life, even in the face of death. You made the beautiful and conscious choice to support me, to reach out to me and my family through notes, donations, phone calls, meals and expressions of sympathy over the last many months and embrace us as we faced the most difficult moments of all. Each one of these acts have overwhelmed and surprised us, and we are so deeply touched by your actions of kindness and comfort. From the bottom of our hearts, my family and I cannot thank you enough for this blessing of community and support. The gratitude we feel towards you is immeasurable.

The choices that we make to choose life are reflected in the actions that we take, whether comforting someone who has had loss, responding to communal loss, or learning how to live when confronted with our own personal loss. The answer is not to respond with pure positivity and a disingenuous sense of reality. Phrases like, “everything will be okay”, “you're gonna get through this”, and “time heals all wounds” should be thrown right out the window. Instead, our actions can reflect our deep caring for other people, patience with ourselves as we learn to grieve and learn to live without, and an understanding that life is completely different now, once the loss has occurred. Grief is a tremendous teacher, and though the world can seem different, it does not have to include only anger, hurt, and sorrow. It can also include compassion, reflection, and perspective.

The story is told of an old Chinese woman who had two water cans which were attached to a pole. Each day, she put the pole over her shoulders and went down to the river, filled the cans, and walked back to her modest hut. The water can on the right side of her pole was fine and sturdy; when she arrived home it was always full. But the can on the left had a crack in it. By the time the woman arrived home, half of the water was usually gone.

The water can always felt inferior to it's partner. It was ashamed that it was cracked and broken and wasn't pulling it's weight. One day, it turned to the woman and apologized for being so defective. The woman smiled gently and said, “Did you think that I didn't notice that you had a crack, and water dripped from you? Look at the path from the river to my hut. Do you see all the beautiful flowers that are growing on the one side of the path? Those are the flowers I planted there, that you watered every day as I walked home from the river.”

Each one of us is broken in some way. Each one of us can see people around us who are broken and in need of love, care, and attention to what hurts them most. We cannot always control what makes us broken, but we can always make the choice on how we move through it, how we respond to it, and what we can take from it.

One of the greatest lessons that I have learned in this last year is that everything is finite. When our lives are done, they are done. And so, it REALLY is important to make moments count and be unafraid to say what really matters to you and whom matters most. Why are we always so afraid of telling others just how much we love them, how important they are to us, or how much they enrich our lives? Not just family, but friends, co-workers, and people we know in our community. We cannot let moments of love and appreciation and opportunity pass us by. When our lives are done, they are done. It is so important to tell others exactly how much they mean to you when you feel it most. I've also learned to be unafraid of the consequences of making decisions. Life is about experiencing the choices we make and not always being held up by fear or the illusion of control over certain situations. If we live our entire lives in a “comfort zone” than we are playing into a sense of control that we only imagine and that will eventually come crashing down around us. By taking chances and embracing a little bit of risk, you never know who or what might be waiting right around the corner for you that will open up your life in a totally new and different way. And, of course, I've learned to be kinder, more compassionate, and more generous with my time and energy when it comes to others. You never know who might be hurting, when a friendly hug or an ear to listen to them, might be just the prayer they need at that moment. I cannot control what happens in my life and you cannot control what happens in yours, but we can choose to be there for each other in our greatest hour of need. Our loss is going to hurt and we cannot run from it. We cannot stop creating and making significant relationships for fear of what happens when they end. Instead, we must choose to put as much as we can into them and then be secure in the knowledge that amidst all of our pain, the love and comfort of others will always surround us.

Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year. It is a day of reflection, repentance, and acceptance. In essence, it is a day about choice, and about confronting the illusion of control and thinking about how we accept reality and make choices that are good for us in our life. Although we focus on atonement today, what we're really doing is examining the choices that we've made that have brought us to this place and time. These choices aren't just about ways in which we've done things poorly, they are also about learning how to choose life, how to be real and honest with ourselves, and how to make the most out of each moment that we are given. I would give all of these lessons back, in a moment, just to have ten more minutes with my mother. But I cannot control that. Instead, I am left with the reality of her loss....and I choose life. I choose sharing her positivity and her belief in the goodness of this world and the importance of building deep relationships with others. I choose love, and patience, and compassion, and vivaciousness, even in the face of despair and a life that is totally and completely different now that she is gone. But not just because that is who she was or who I am, but because that is what this day is about. It's about starting fresh and saying, what choices will I make this year, so that I can fully embrace life, even though I cannot control it?

Mahatma Ghandi once said, “ I shall pass through this world but once. Any good therefore that I can do or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way, again.” Our lives are a series of ups and downs, most of which we really have no control over. Some days are harder and some days are easier. And none of us is immune to what will inevitably be great loss. At some point in our lives, our eyes will be opened to the reality of life and it's fragility. But, the choice is ours on how we respond, on how we persevere, on how we live each day. Do we choose love or do we choose fear? Do we choose comfort and compassion or do we turn the other way? Do we choose control and illusion or do we choose reality? Do we choose death or do we choose life? The choice is up to you. May each of you find a life that is worth living, even in the face of difficulty. May each of you make choices that help you support others and feel supported by them, in the ups and downs that occur on the journey of life. May each of you be brave enough to confront reality head on, rather than live under the illusion of control. May each of you be written as a blessing in the Book of Life. And if that doesn't go according to plan, we'll figure out how to move forward, one day and one choice at a time. 

 

1Deuteronomy 30:19

2Hamlin, Rick. Guideposts., Sept 2012

Shema in the Sound Booth - Shavuot

I wrote this piece last year (2012), after attending and helping out at WAREHOUSE SHABBAT

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about standing at Sinai. As Shavuot approaches, I am reminded of the notion that we all stood at Sinai together as we received Torah from God. You were there, and you were there, and you too. You were standing right next to me as we got those sacred instructions. Don’t you remember? It was a very long time ago. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering we were all there together, too.

I also have a really hard time learning how to really bring in Shabbat. It’s not that I don’t make time for it – quite the opposite. I’m a rabbi. I celebrate Shabbat (almost) every week. But, I’m often so concerned with the details and orchestration of the service I’m leading that I don’t ever truly let myself go and relax and feel all the things that I like to help others feel. I espouse peace and rest and worship, but the truth is that I am working. And while I love the work that I do, it’s hard for me to find moments of holiness, of connection, of true release. Just because I’m a rabbi, it doesn’t mean that spiritual enlightenment comes any easier for me.

A few weeks ago, I offered to step in and help my friends run Warehouse Shabbat. I was familiar with the service after seeing it a few months ago at a convention, but I was eager to see it in its natural habitat – a hip lower east side bar on a Friday night filled with young Jews. The food was delicious. The drinks were great. The crowd was really a fun group and the band sounded awesome. But I was there to work. I tucked myself back into the sound booth with Billy (the sound guy!) and focused on the laptop in front of me, prepared not to miss a stitch with the slides, videos, and supplemental images and prayers I was about to help conjure up.

And then, something incredible happened. I let go. We began singing the Shema, slowly and quietly. No instruments, just our voices. It felt singular. I was scared of it, at first, but this feeling washed over me until I was completely consumed. We continued singing, chanting almost, a mantra of our people. And the voices around me exploded. The instruments layered their sound with ours. I was transformed. I stood there, in the sound booth, eyes closed, body swaying, and I was no longer there. I was standing at Sinai and so were the people around me. They always had been. I just couldn’t remember it until at that moment when I was lifted up and struck. Our voices were like a chord that penetrated history, penetrated time and space and place, penetrated our very being. It didn’t matter that I didn’t really know these people in the bar around me. I did know them. In that moment, we connected, we took our places once again at Sinai and together we received Torah. Our voices were one.

And then, it was over, almost as quickly as it came on. I sat down, and I played the next video.

But something about that moment changed me. It renewed me. It taught me. Community is everywhere and accessible all the time. We just need to open our eyes and our ears to the people around us. Judaism also surrounds us, in every moment. We just need the right tools to access it. Music, prayer, intention. But we also need to not get so wrapped up in always trying to make it happen. Sometimes, we just need to let go. Sometimes we cannot be afraid of letting go. Sometimes, we cannot worry about where we are, or who we are with, or what we are doing – we just have to be open to what we are given and the experience before us.

I might have been singing Shema in the sound booth that night, but I will always feel as though I was REALLY standing at Sinai, opening up my heart and my eyes and my ears to God and to the Jewish people. It might have started with my voice, but your voice was there, and yours too, and even yours. I remember now. I remember.

A question of moral responsibitlity

Often times, the greatest questions of morality and character do not reflect how to achieve happiness or whether something is definitively right or wrong. Rather, the challenge comes from our moral responsibility to care for others, to care for our cherished but broken world, and how to partner with God in continuing the daily renewed work of creation. The Jewish tradition teaches that even the poorest among us is capable of giving to others - whether through time, action, or intention.  In that way, we understand that we are  all privileged and imbued with a spirit that is capable of giving. Moreover, it is is our moral and ethical responsibility, as privileged human beings of God's world, to share in that responsibility to promote equality, to advocate for social justice, and to mend our world. As it states in Deuteronomy 15:7-8, "If among you one of your fellow humans should become poor, in any of the towns of the land which Adonai your God gave to you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against them, but you shall open your hard and give them what is needed, whatever it may be."

As religious and spiritual beings, it is not enough it simply pray for good and expect it to come. We must be continuously committed to the hard and, often, difficult work of speaking up and speaking out and taking action so that all of God's children can live in harmony in our world. Then, and only then, will it be possible to think about calling this place Eden, once again.

What drives you to do Social Justice? Reflections from the Brickner Rabbinic Program

The question was so simple.  “What drives you to do social justice?”  But the answer was so complex and varied.  The themes were similar: family role models, personal experiences of injustice, a sense of responsibility and moral obligation.  But each one of us had a story to tell, a piece to uncover, a truth to reveal.  After 15 months of knowing the people in the room with me, I realized that maybe I didn’t really know them that well at all.  And all it takes, to really get to know a person, is to ask a simple question and let their story unfold.
I just returned from the Religious Action Center’s Consultation on Conscience. As a 2012-2013 Brickner Rabbinic Fellow, this was the culminating event to months of study, prayer, and exploration on social advocacy, as it pertains to being a rabbi. But it was more than that.  It was the culmination of months of being in relationship with a great group that helped me realize what it means to be passionate about social justice, to rely on one another professionally to help better our world, and to live with holy intention in the work that we do.
And yet, there was something so powerful, so organically raw and moving in the room as we closed out our final moments together as a group.  Rabbi Steve Fox, Chief Executive of the CCAR, invited us to reflect for a moment.  In most cases, you would expect us to reflect back on the last 15 months and the experiences shared in the program.  But we didn’t do that.  We did something much more sacred, much more meaningful and much more useful.  We shared words with one another about our own personal journeys and lives in relation to changing, healing, and helping our broken world.  It had all the potential to go wrong and be self-serving and egotistical.  But it wasn’t.  It was beautiful. In that moment, our group took the trust that had been building in those 15 months and we unleashed our stories – painful, funny, heartfelt – and we crea
ted sacred space to continue connecting our lives with one another.
That moment continued to teach us about social advocacy, about the holiness that comes from hearing and sharing stories and recognizing the beauty of the human spirit and the power of community.  Social advocacy is nothing without recognizing that we are all human beings, with complex stories and histories and lives, and that we are all in this world together, trying to create a better world so that all may live with dignity and freedom.  But it begins by listening and by sharing.
The question was so very simple.  But I am grateful that it was asked.  Because with it, I was able to understand what the last 15 months truly were about – making sacred connections so that I can be empowered to continue partnering with God and with my fellow human beings in order to help create a more perfect world through social advocacy, social justice and tikkun olam.

Judaism gets it right: Reflections 30 days later

Judaism just get it's right: 3 days. 7 days. 30 days.  A year.  

It's been over thirty days now, since we buried my mother, and I really get it.  I've been saying it to others for years, but it wasn't until now that I really got it.  You need Judaism to help you mourn.  You need the community and the laws and the rules and the structure of time.  It's not that it's comforting.  No, there's nothing comforting about it.  It's that you have no other way to express what you're feeling and going through - so Judaism does it for you. It lifts the obligation of having to tell others how you are feeling when you've never felt more sad, or more alone, or more scared.  And it provides a community that knows all of this, that provides support and love and faith when you are unable to find those things.

It's been over thirty days and I'm just starting to understand what this new reality will be like for me - without my mother on the other end of the phone at the end of the day, without her telling me how to cook something I'm not sure how to cook, without her helping me work through ideas that I have.  But it's more than that.  It's realizing that she won't be there as my life continues to unfold - celebrating the victories that lie ahead, the rough times that challenge me, the joys and the surprises, the big moments and the ordinary moments.  It's been over thirty days and I'm just now starting to really realize what this all means.  Thank goodness I have a year to continue formally processing all of this, to continue honoring my mother's memory and figuring out how to live in this new reality.  Thank you Judaism. 

Everyone tells me I should be feeling a lot of emotions right now.  A lot of people tell me it's okay to be angry.  But I don't feel angry.  I feel gratitude. I feel thankfulness.  My family and I are so grateful for the outpouring of love and support we've received throughout this whole process.  My congregation in NY, our friends and family, our congregation in Indiana and everyone who has reached out to us - we are so overwhelmed by your generosity of spirit.  Thank you - each and every one of you.  We could not have done this without you. 

But my gratitude lies deeper than this.  It lies with my mother.  The greatest emotion I feel right now is gratitude for having a mother like mine.  She was a great teacher and she was patient and kind and wise and fun and smart.  She gave me so much, and for all of those lessons I will be forever grateful that she made me into the person that I am now.  As I wade in the sea of emotions that have taken over me and begin to really process all of this, I hope that I will never loose this sense of gratitude and kindness that I have been given and that I sense all around me.

Judaism marks time so brilliantly.  We mark our years (and reflect on them at various times), we mark our months, our days, our weeks, even our moments.  As I've come through these thirty days, I've realized the importance of time and of marking time.  I realized that it was 10 weeks from her diagnosis to her death.  That's not even three months.  I've realized that I think about how long it's been since I last saw her, since I last heard her voice, and since I last held her hand and kissed her cheek. I also think about how it's gotten lighter the more I come out of mourning.  The first few days were an exhausting blur.  The first seven days of mourning were painful and unbearable.  The first thirty days were a mixture of tears and sadness and catching my breath and trying to keep busy.  Now, things are a bit different.  I still have incredibly hard moments, but I feel more like me, again, than I have in a while.  I remember what it is to smile and to laugh and to enjoy time with friends and family and to be back at work and to be doing good and productive things. I remember that sparkle that I used to have - the one my mother taught me never to let dim or die.  I remember that I have the next year to deal with all of this.  And then, I remember that I will always honor the memory of my mother and her beautiful life by marking the anniversary of her death, year after year. We mark a person's life in Judaism by celebrating the date of their death (not birth) because it reminds us of all their life held and all the things they gave us. And we remember that we never forget who they were and what they mean to us.

Even in death, my mother is still teaching me.  I can still hear her voice telling me to keep smiling and laughing and enjoying life the way I do.  "You're a party in a package!" she would tell me. She was too.  But she loved seeing that in me as much as she loved that it was a part of her.  She would remind me that it's okay to be sad and to use the beautiful structure that Judaism has provided for us to work through all of my grief.  And then she would remind me that there is SO much life to be lived and that it's my job to get out there and to live it and to love it.  

Thanks for letting me grieve, dear friends and family and community and for holding me up and holding us in your thoughts and prayers.  

I'm so grateful for Judaism and the structure it has provided for us in grief, but I'm also grateful for my mother and her lessons, in life and in death. 

Thanks, mom.  You'll always be with me and I'll always keep learning from you - days, months, even years after you are gone.

A Mi Sheberach for me? I'll take it

It 's taken me over a week to finally have the energy, courage, and strength to get this blog post written.  After all, it's been quite the week. First, there was the devastation that Hurricane Sandy caused to the entire Eastern coast. Thousands are still without power, shelter, or basic needs. Then, there was the 2012  election - an energy all of its own in this country. Finally, there was our own personal family crisis: this last week, my mother was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia (AML). Because of so many other factors related to her health, we were told that we could maybe slow it down, but we couldn't stop it. My heart plummeted into my stomach. BOOM! Suddenly, everything became different.

It felt like something out of a movie. We went into the doctor's office first thing Monday morning of last week to get the devastating news - this is how long you have to live....maybe more, maybe less.  We should assess quality of life, not just quantity. How can we make you more comfortable in this whole process?
And before we knew it, my mother had to be admitted to the hospital because her blood numbers were so dangerously low.  Her cough was too suspect. She couldn't eat, she couldn't breathe. It was not good.

My father and I have been alternating days and nights staying at the hospital to help care for my mother. Shes been in for 10 days now. My grandmother, aunt, uncle, brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew all came into town this last weekend. We're all hugging each other extra tightly, saying things we've never said to one another before (and we're not a shy bunch), shedding tears together, and working as hard as we can to support her and support each other.  We were never the kind of family to take much for granted, but right now, the gift of time is in our faces and we aren't going to lose a minute of it.

I've been thinking a lot about the Mi Sheberach prayer this last week. As a rabbi, I often remind my congregants that we are not only praying for those who are ill and in need of recovery, but we are also praying for the doctors and nurses that help to make our loved ones healthy, and the caregivers that support the sick day in and day out.  As I was thinking of this, suddenly it hit me.  That's me. I'm in need of a little strength, comfort, and prayer too - suddenly I have become a caregiver, helping my very sick mother to be more comfortable and help her be as healthy as possible, while trying to keep her spirits high and the hope of miracles alive. Of course my mother needs to be at the forefront of prayers - praying for comfort and strength for her. But my family and I could use a little prayer too - we too are in need of comfort, strength, support, and love.

This is not easy for me to say. Part of the reason I became a rabbi is because I enjoy caring for others and find it hard to often accept it, myself. It's more comfortable for me to focus on you than for you to focus on me. Plus, I'm pretty independent, pretty self-sufficient, and pretty accustomed to being strong - both for myself and others.

But, right now, I'm a mess.  My mother is laying in the hospital bed next to me on oxygen, dialysis, and light chemo (in order to alleviate some of the difficult symptoms she is experiencing right now - not to try and cure it) and we don't know what each day will bring.  There are good days and there are bad days. But the constants in our life haven't wavered.  Those of you who have texted, called, emailed, sent notes/cards and brought us food - we are so grateful to you and feel so supported by your love and friendship. Truthfully, that has really helped sustain us.
And our faith has  helped sustain us as well: a visit from our Rabbi here in Indiana who offered words of prayer and comfort. The Jewish songs my mother asked me to sing in her room as she received her first chemo treatment. And the prayer for healing. Mi Sheberach - may the one who blessed our ancestors, bless us and heal us now.

When everything changes in a moment, we must cling to one another,  to our Judaism and be strong enough to say , "I need a little extra strength and support right now." No matter what the future brings, we can always count on these things to sustain us.

If you are the praying type, my mother's name is Sharon Wood. She could certainly use your thoughts and prayers. Come to think of it, so could I.

Creating Community, REAL communnity

I have a friend.  Her name is @knitgrlnyc.  You see, that's how we first met. Online. On Twitter. Let me tell you about her.  She lives in my neighborhood, is married, has an adorable little dog, works from home,  and likes to knit and take photos.  Now, let me really tell you about her.  She's Cuban-American, an only child, and she's an incredible friend: She listens well, gives great advice, and will drop anything at a moment's notice if you need her.  She is fun, giving, and incredibly intelligent and hard-working.  Even though she is not Jewish, she knows a lot about Judaism and is always the first to wish me well on a Jewish holiday or to ask about it so she can learn more.  Basically, she's an awesome friend.  And yes, we met online. But now, we're real friends.  In Real Life.

I've been thinking a lot lately about community.  And I've been thinking even more about significant friendships and relationships in life. Over Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) I gave a sermon about love.  One of the things I spoke about was the importance of building and acknowledging love that exists between friends.  How often do we say how much we love and care for the people who support us, day in and day out? It's easy to tell a spouse or partner that we love them, but what about our friends who provide so much for us, as well? I also stressed the importance of love when building community. You cannot create trust and togetherness without a little love - either for one another or for a common cause/purpose.

Community and friendship can happen in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times.  In fact, it can even happen online. Social media, by its very nature, is intended to make our relationships with others more accessible, more ubiquitous, and more frequent.  And these relationships can be just as significant, if not more so, than our relationships that we build in person. After all, you get to know your online friend's thoughts, feelings, habits, musical choices, food preferences, favorite quotes and updates on a daily basis.  And, oftentimes, when you see these people "in real life", you feel more connected to them because of what you know about them.  Personally, I find it very hard when people blame technology and social media for our lack of being able to relate to one another, these days.  I think that when we use it properly, the possibilities for building friendships, community, and even sacred spaces are endless. We just have to get outside of our comfort zone and recognize that there is validity in creating relationships in non-traditional ways, like through our virtual experiences.

Let me be clear - I am not a wallflower.  I am bubbly and friendly and I like interacting with people.  But I also love making connections and creating community and friendships online. It's just another way to get to know someone and to get to know what matters most to them - which is at the heart of creating community (both personally and with others).  And it helps strengthen/maintain/reinforce relationships that you have with people once they are taken offline.  And there are several people in my life that I never, ever, would have gotten to know if I hadn't met them through social media (and then eventually in real life).  I might have seen @knitgrlnyc around the neighborhood, but I might not have ever met her and I would have lost out on all the blessings and love of this beautiful friend.  Many weddings that I officiate include couples that meet online. After getting to know each other through emails or chat, they move their relationships offline and their love blossoms and grows.  You never know who might be just a click away....

I'm sad that @knitgrlnyc will be moving out of the neighborhood this next month.  But I'll be okay.  Because I know that I will still talk to her, see her updates, chat with her through facebook and twitter. And I know that our real friendship, in person, will endure because when I don't get to see her, I'll still have a way to connect with her. That's the beauty of social media - to me.  Even when our community and the people who create community in our lives are not sitting right next to us, we can still always be close to them.
And to me, there is nothing more special and nothing more sacred than the love and relationships and community that we create for ourselves and others through our connections - no matter what the source.

A letter from Auntie Liz

There are only six people in the world who call me Auntie Liz.  Two of them are my own niece and nephew.  Four of them are my friends' children - David, Sam, Yael, and Solly (who really just burbles and smiles at me...he'll get there soon). My best friends for over a decade have made sure that I have a special relationship with their children, because I have an incredibly special relationship with them.
These friends taught me that family is more than just the people who brought you into this world.  Family can be the most special people that you chose to surround yourself with, that are more dear to you than almost anyone else. These families will stick by you through thick and thin (in moments of great joy and moments of utter devastation and loss), make you laugh and cry and add dimension to your life in ways you never thought possible.  There is unconditional love and trust and respect. It has been one of the most sacred and enduring lessons I've learned, as an adult, and I have Michael and Phyllis to thank for that.

Right now, my family is devastated.  I can feel their anger, shock, fear, and sadness.  I feel it too. I can sense their tears.  I am shedding them too. Sammy, who is only six, was diagnosed with Leukemia this week.  And there is no way of understanding it.  None. 

My friend Rebecca wrote a beautiful blog about it here.  She and I went together, less than two years ago, to surprise Michael and Phyllis at the Bris of their newest child. I know she hurts too.  Though she aches for our dear friends, I know her kids are of great comfort to her right now.  And for that, I am incredibly jealous.  I don't have kids of my own.  Michael and Phyllis's kids are as close to my own as any. 

It's hard to feel so helpless from afar.  And while it's okay to feel sad for a while, I can also do something about it, and so can you.  Michael and Phyllis (in particular) are really into Social Media.  Send them a note on Facebook or Twitter (@imabima) (@Abba_Sababa) and follow their blog about Sam's journey once it goes live (soon).  They are overwhelmed by your love and support these last few days.
If you're the praying type, you can add Sam Sommer's name to your healing list and keep all of them in your thoughts and prayers. 
Or you can click here and donate to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.  These are just a few ways to be proactive in a time that feels so unraveled.

This is going to be a long road and a rough journey.  But, I know that in the end, they will get through this.  We all will - because we are all with them on this journey.  So I'll leave you with what I would think Michael and Phyllis would say.  Michael would tell you to not dwell so much on the negative and to visualize the outcome that you wish and hope for - to remain as strong as you are and to know that you can achieve anything if you believe in it.  This is what we can do for him.  Phyllis would tell you ways to be proactive, give great advice, and show her love through her warm smile, her baked goods and home cooking, her texts, tweets, and posts.  This is what we can do for her. 
Sam would ask to play angry birds on your iPad, iPhone, or computer.  He would crack a joke and then laugh like crazy.  This is what we can do for him.  And we can do so much more.

R'fuah Shleimah - A complete healing of body and mind to my little one and to my friends who are truly my family.

Love,
Auntie Liz

40 years of female Rabbis

When I was applying to Rabbinical school, right out of college, I remember having the following fears: maybe I'm too young, maybe I don't have enough experience, maybe I'm not what they're looking for. But never once did I say to myself: Maybe I won't get in because I am a female.

As a young female rabbi, I am fortunate. I never grew up in a time or place where the option of being a female rabbi felt like it might present significant challenges for me. Those who came before me fought those battles and have been successful. Today, there are 611 ordained female rabbis who have benefited from this - who work, contribute, and thrive in the Jewish professional world.

Sometimes, when people say to me, "I didn't know women could be rabbis" I remind them that not only have women been rabbis for quite a while, but that it's been so long that female rabbis have already begun to retire. It has been 40 years since Sally Priesand was ordained. As a friend, and a mentor to me, I am honored to know Sally and to get to hear her story so that I never forget what moments were paved before my path began.

At last week's CCAR (Central Conference of American Rabbis) convention in Boston, I was invited to write a reflection on being a younger female Rabbinic colleague and my thoughts on 40 years of women in the rabbinate.
Here is what I wrote:

History is such an important foundation when looking to the future. It's roots anchor our current sensibilities, help mold and shape our identity and gives us direction and guidance for the future.
But we never know what the future will truly ever hold for us -- will I be successful, brave and sure-footed like those strong women who came before me? Will I doubt, question, or waiver? What challenges will my generation be faced with and will I rise to the occassion in a worthwhile and meaningful way?
I am young. I am newly ordained. I am a rabbi. I am a woman. I am the future but the past is my responsibility, as well. So I make this promise to the pioneers who came before me: I promise to be confident, to persevere, to lead on into the future with strength and integrity. This is your legacy....and mine.

Unpacking from my week at the Brickner Seminar

In order to tell you about the last week of my life, I have to begin at the end.
I want to tell you about Ahmed. Ahmed is a retired school teacher from Pakistan. For twenty years he served in the Pakistani Army, where he continues to receive his monthly pension from them. He is married and has one son, who is currently in his residency at Columbia University Medcial center after just having finished medical school there last year. Ahmed owns a few properties in Yonkers, where he lives, and has renters and tenants that help meet his income needs. When he was in Pakistan, he obtained a Masters in Political Science and his wife obtained her PhD in Philosophy and they both taught for a while, until they decided to leave Pakistan in 1985 in order to seek out a better future for their child, in America. Ahmed worked with the Board of Education for a while, but ultimately found that it wasn't the right fit for him (his accent often got in the way, rigorous demands, etc). So he worked as a paramedic for a number of years, driving around the city and rescuing those who needed help most. But, as he realized that this kind of work was for the young and he was getting older in years, he decided that in his retirement, he would continue to make ends meet by driving a cab in New York City.

Tonight, Ahmed was my cab driver. After coming home from a week long conference with 30 other rabbis, intensely studying texts on social justice and the value of human relationships, here was my gift. I was tired after the journey home, I was stressed out about thinking of all my missed emails, and I was cranky because of the rush hour traffic. But Ahmed engaged me. He asked me a few questions and I answered. Normally, I'm not one to make a lot of small talk with others or to share my "story" with people who I meet randomly. It's not my style - I'm busy, I have other things on my mind. But after just coming off of the week I did, I put my phone down, and I started to listen and engage. We started off with small talk, but we both found one another so easy to talk to, that we continued on.

Ahmed told me pieces of his story, as I've mentioned above, and I told him parts of mine. He told me that he was about to reject my ride from Penn Station all the way to Queens, but he felt bad for me standing there in the rain with my luggage. I told him I was sorry to make him have to drive all the way out to Queens in the traffic. But we both agreed that the conversation was worth it all.

I explained where I had been for the last week, at the Brickner Rabbinic Fellowship Retreat and what I had been doing there. I shared a story with Ahmed that I had learned from the weekend, a text that I had felt compelling, and the general gratitude I had for the time I spent immersed in text and study with colleagues and friends. He told me of similar ways in which he used to study, as a student and even as a teacher in Pakistan. But then he said to me, "Now, I study people, Elizabeth. My time with each of them is different, but I still get to learn." As he pulled up to my apartment, Ahmed got out of the car, came around, hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. "Thank you Ahmed," I said. "You been the perfect end to an incredible week."

This week, at Brickner, I learned so MANY things. I learned that text study is not just about the words on a page - it's about the stories behind them and the value hidden beneath them. Ahmed is not just a cab driver in New York City to ignore on my way home - he's a person with a family and a history and a story and a life.

I learned that life is about helping others, working with others, seeking out the needs of others - which you can never really know until you understand their perspective. Who knew that Ahmed had given up his career in Pakistan in order to give his son, the doctor, the kind of life he dreamed for him?

I learned about the value of relationships and the way in which time that is given to others and stories shared are gifts about these perspectives and relationships. Ahmed and I didn't have to talk the entire way home. He could have kept his eyes focused on the road and I could have kept mine buried in my smartphone. But we didn't. We shared our stories, our goals, our perspective on a number of ideas and thoughts and values.

I learned that as Rabbi, I still have so much to learn. It's about the journey and the ability to gather information on our journey and use it for good in the world. Ahmed taught me that too. He never stops learning. "Now, I study people."

I am so thankful to the Religious Action Center, my brilliant colleagues whom I had the privilege to study with and learn from this week, our wonderful guest speakers and teachers for an outstanding week together. It taught me that there are a million people like Ahmed around me all the time - some I interact with and others I do not. But more so, it reminded me of the sacred nature of relationships with our fellow human beings. Ahmed and I had a holy encounter, sealed with a hug and a kiss and well wishes for the future.

We are obligated to help one another, our Jewish wisdom tradition teaches us that. And the paths that lead to righteousness and justice are varied and different. But in that obligation there is reward - connection, fulfillment, and kedusha. When we seek out the other, we seek out something greater than ourselves that helps us become infused with God's spirit and the spirit of humanity.

Shelter of Peace

(January 20th Sermon delivered at the Reform Temple of Forest Hills, kicking off Shelter of Peace's weekend of prayer and learning)

I felt a lot of pressure preparing for tonight’s remarks. Silly, right? I mean, I’ve given sermons hundreds of times before. I’m not usually shy in front of a big crowd. I’m a decent writer and speaker. So what’s the big deal? It’s not like anyone’s life depends on this one particular message. Or does it?

The truth is, our Torah, our tradition, teaches us that sometimes lives are really dependent on words and messages. Take the Akedah – the binding of Isaac, for example. We read of God commanding Abraham to sacrifice his only son. And at the moment that he lifts up the knife, an angel of God calls out and Abraham replies with his words “Hineini – Here I am.” These simple words stopped the action and ultimately save Isaac’s life. In the Joseph story, we know that Joseph was also saved by his words. He had been imprisoned for years in Egypt after being accused of touching Potiphar’s wife during his servitude in their household. But Joseph had a gift. He could interpret dreams. And instead of hiding this gift, he shared it with the world, first with his cellmates and then eventually with Pharaoh. He even got into Pharaoh’s good graces by advising him to be prudent during times of plenty so that times of famine would be easier to bear. Yes, Joseph’s words served him well and ultimately saved him, both from bondage and perhaps from death. In this week’s Torah portion, we learn of Moses’s most important words to a new Pharaoh in Egypt. Moses and Aaron repeatedly come before Pharaoh and say, “Let my people go!” These words aren’t just about freedom, they are about survival. The Jews were enslaved and were being killed, systematically. Their only chance for survival was to be freed, to be saved. And God had promised to protect them on their journey. All they needed to do was to use their words – to speak up for what they believed in, for what they could do to save their own lives and the Israelite existence.

So tonight, I’d like to take the opportunity, the chance, to help save a life. This weekend I join other clergy, both Jewish and non-Jewish alike, in spreading the message about teens who are in trouble. I don’t mean teens who have gotten themselves into trouble with the law, but teens who have nowhere to go, teens who have been kicked out of their homes and their lives, who have been cut off from their families. The homeless teens in our midst and on our streets this very night, who are in trouble and who desperately need our help.

This weekend, the Shelter of Peace, a faith based community initiative to end youth homelessness is engaging in a weekend of prayer and study all around the city to raise awareness on this issue. Shelter of Peace is a new organization that is a branch of Congregation Beit Simchat Torah (CBST), a gay and lesbian congregation based in Manhattan. Shelter of Peace was designed to create awareness and stimulate advocacy among people of faith, regarding the high numbers of homeless youth in NYC without adequate shelter. From recent surveys we know that over 3,800 youngster on the streets every single night. And of those 3,800 – 40% - almost 2300 teens identify as being gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender – the greatest single unifying factor of those out on the streets. Because of the dis-proportionate numbers of LGBT homeless combined with the fact that CBST is the largest synagogue in NYC for the LGBT community they do emphasize the specific problems faced by homeless LGBT youth.

Now I know that not all of us may feel similarly towards the LGBT community. I know that we may not all agree on issues of civil marriage, domestic partnership, or politics. I know that we all have differing views on the LGBT community and their agenda, and civil rights. But one thing I do know is that there are thousands of kids living on the street each night. And, ultimately, what unites us is our desire to create warm and safe spaces for these teens to continue to live, to grow and to thrive. And we cannot ignore one of the greatest unifying factors amongst these teens – that many of them are on the streets tonight because they were thrown out or ran away from home because of their sexual orientation.

This is not a sermon about gay rights. This is not a sermon about politics or civil rights. This is a sermon about helping our fellow humans who are in need. This is about speaking up and speaking out so that others might have a chance of survival.

Let’s go over a few facts: As I said, there are some 3,800 teens on the streets of New York every single night. This doesn’t count youth who are couch surfing, bouncing around from apartment to apartment, or staying in other unstable situations to avoid physically being on the street. I’d like to contrast that figure with the 250 beds that are available for homeless youth in New York each night. That means that even if a teenager gets themselves to a shelter for the night, they have a 5% chance of getting a bed to sleep in. Moreover, those teens who are LGBT might not even get to a shelter for fear of harassment, violence, or rejection based on their sexual orientation or identity. It’s estimated that 25% of those LGBT teens living on the street tonight are doing so because they were rejected by their family, treated violently, and harassed, by their own families when they revealed their true identity. They are scared, alone, and in danger of being hurt, either by themselves or by others. This is their reality.

I want to give you one other statistic: Right now, it is 30 degrees outside with a prediction of 1-3 inches of snow tonight. Living on the streets means more than being cold, hungry, and in danger of violence. It means not knowing if you’re going to live to see the next day. How many teens will we let die tonight, in this bitter cold, because they didn’t have a place to stay, warm clothes to wear, or a bed to sleep in?

We Jews have a moral obligation to help out those who are in need. We learn this week of God revealing God’s self to Moses. Employing the “four expressions of redemption,” God promises to take out the Children of Israel from Egypt, deliver them from enslavement, redeem them, and acquire them as the chosen people at Mount Sinai; God will eventually then bring them to the land promised to the Patriarchs as their eternal heritage. We have known enslavement and bondage and we have come through to the other side redeemed, chosen, and free. Now, it is our turn to help. Our turn to take out these children from the streets, to deliver them to adulthood safely, to redeem them from the horrors of being homeless and to acquire them as human beings capable of growth and great contributions to our city, our country, and our world.

So what can we do? We can speak out. We can remind others not to be complacent about these issues just because they are not at the forefront of our personal lives or minds. Every Friday night, for the last month or so, I have been welcoming you to our synagogue and commenting briefly on the weather outside. Well now, up until Pesach, the time of ultimate freedom and deliverance, we will be concluding each service with the temperature outside and the number of homeless youth on the street that night. That way none of us will forget about those who are in need. None of us will leave here taking our warmth, shelter, or safety for granted. And hopefully we will feel moved and called to action.

What else can we do? We can join the Shelter of Peace’s faith network and learn more about their action, their needs, and the ways in which we as people who believe in God and the good of helping our fellow in need can work together to mend the world. We are all children of God and our mission to protect these children is one and the same. By getting on their mailing list, finding out about them online, or donating to the cause, we can help those who are actively working to reach out to communities of faith and to help find homes and beds for all those teens out on the streets, each and every night.

Finally, we can take our own action. Shelter beds are provided by a combination of city and state funding. Over the last few years, this funding has been reduced significantly while the government tries to balance the budget. Shelter of Peace suggests that you call Gov. Cuomo and say, “"I support the Campaign for Youth Shelter. I am calling as a member of my faith

congregation and a New Yorker to let you know how important it is to us that you add to the Homeless Youth Services budget, every year, until all our kids have a safe place to

sleep every night." If you would like to take this action, feel free to pick up fliers that I have for you in the upper lobby with information and statistics, numbers to call, and ways to get involved. No matter what you do, do something, do anything. Because if it were you, if it were your kids, your friends, your relatives out on the street, wouldn’t you want others to help fight for their survival?

We learn from Pirke Avot, the “Sayings of our Fathers,” in Chapter 2, verse 22: Lo alecha ham'lacha ligmor v'lo atah ben horin l'hibatil mimena. It is not up to you to complete the work, but neither are you free to ignore it. There is so much in this world that needs our attention and it can feel overwhelming at times. But it is our job, our obligation, as Jews and as human beings, not to ignore these problems. Abraham did not ignore it. He responded with his words and so can you. Joseph did not ignore it, and he fought for a better life for himself and his family and his community. Moses did not ignore it, and he used his words, his message from God, and his actions. We cannot ignore those teens, those children of God, living in our midst, freezing and hungry and in danger on the streets each and every night. Use your words, use your faith, use your time and energy. After all, you might just be able to save another human being’s life. And that is the greatest mitzvah that any of us can ever hope to do.

May this be God’s Will. Amen.